


Lord Pendleton Memoirs, Chapter 35

by blondcockerel



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Fraternal Abuse, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Sadism, Other, Treavor Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondcockerel/pseuds/blondcockerel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possibly the worst of Lord Treavor Pendleton's birthdays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord Pendleton Memoirs, Chapter 35

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaliforniaStop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliforniaStop/gifts).



> Fugue Feast in July (*cough* apparently November I'm extremely sorry *cough*) gift for tumblr user [platinuumpussycat](http://platinuumpussycat.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The request was as follows: _ANYTHING PENDLETON. LITERALLY ANYTHING AT ALL. preferably with all three of those snotty pissbabies but Treavor remains my favorite_ , with the addendum: _I would prefer nothing fluffy, funny, crack-y. I don’t mind slash._
> 
> With that in mind, here is Treavor being miserable on his birthday with a touch of h/c at the end.

The party was a lush one, all of Dunwall's nobility called out for a coming-of-age. The Lord Pendleton's youngest son, Treavor Pendleton, was celebrating the twentieth anniversary of his birth in grand style. At least, theoretically.

Treavor was skulking, because the praise and well-wishes he received, simple courtesy and nothing else, from people who cared more about the party than its subject, felt like salt being rubbed into a wound. He was on his second glass of wine, from a vintage he'd had Wallace uncork for him, specifically. There was something dreadfully uncouth about whiskey, and he didn't understand why it had become so popular recently amongst the nobility.

He watched with a dour eye as Morgan and Custis drank from their glasses, bourbon, entertaining a small crowd of lords with tales of Treavor's misdeeds from childhood. Most of them were fabrications, but of course it was altogether too easy to believe that the youngest son who had nothing to his name but his lineage was a resentful delinquent.

“- and then the boy, bless his simple soul, tried to pin the breaking of the urn on Custis and I!” Morgan said, to the amusement of a somewhat intoxicated lady to his left. “Our step-mother was terribly infuriated – but it was nothing compared to when she learned that Treavor had tried to feed her great-aunt's ashes to one of the estate's hounds to further hide the mess!”

Perhaps some other day, Treavor would have balked at their retelling of the story, where he was not only the son who had shouldered the blame and punishment, but also the perpetrator of the misdeed. Well, that was a lie: he would have protested internally and perhaps told an anecdote in turn, but today he was too tired. He ached down to his bones.

-

The heel of Morgan's boot dug into Treavor's back, into a bruise that that very heel had made, only an hour ago. “You know, brother,” he remarked to Custis, who was also resting his feet, lightly, on Treavor's back, “I was just telling Father the other day how badly we needed a new ottoman in this sitting room.”

“Yes, brother dear, I see what you mean," Custis replied, "Treavor really is filling up a dead space in the room.” He sighed contently. “Pass me a cigarette, will you?”

-

Eventually, Treavor found a place to sit, and that place was in a quiet part of the library, next to the new Lord Brisby. The young lord occupied a corner of the library almost entirely to himself; his awkward inability to hide his intentions driving most of the men, and certainly all of the women, away from him. Besides that, the recent death of his father carried a stigma that made him even less approachable – and it was his solitary circumstance that he lamented to Pendleton the moment he sat down.

“Treavor, is there just something repellent about me? You speak to Waverly almost every day, how do you do it?!”

“I...” Treavor sighed and rested his aching head against the armchair he'd collapsed into. “Timothy, I don't know. It's been a long day.”

“Oh. Eh, I see, now that I look at you, it looks like you haven't slept in ages! Poor sap.”

Treavor smiled weakly. “I don't always look like that?” He had inherited the deep-set, baggy Pendleton eyes to a much greater extent than his brothers, or even his father. Waverly often joked about him being her 'little owl', and the joke had continued even though Pendleton had outgrown her long ago.

“Even for you, though." There was something approaching concern in Brisby's expression that made Treavor recoil internally. "You look like death warmed over. That reminds me - what are we having for dinner this evening?”

“Timothy...” This was part of why no one wanted to talk to him, Pendleton knew, but there was no fixing the way some minds worked. “... We're having halibut.”

“Oh, thanks awfully, Treavor.”

-

The parlor was one in which the Pendletons, at a younger age, had received their lessons in, after Lady Pendleton grew too sickly to receive guests any more. It still held tinges of opulence in its furnishings: the brocade divan upon which the twins were sitting was stuffed full with swan down, and the carpet was a luxurious one brought by ship from Pandyssia; its threads had been gentle on Treavor's delicate skin as a child when he'd taken his lessons seated there.

The softness against his hands now was disturbing, as pleasant memory mixed with the dull aching in his chest, his limbs, his back. There was no place in the manor that the twins had not tainted for him in this way.

Treavor felt a sob rise up in his throat, and try as he might to swallow it, it managed to force its way out in a choked whimper. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stay in this position, though his arms and legs were bound and, at this point, set to stay bent as they were. He simply hurt. The rough hemp of the wrong dug into his wrists and his ankles. His dignity, and everything but the barest of his underclothes, had been stripped from him. His mind was exhausted from fighting the animal instinct to panic and try, however futilely, to escape.

Custis, hearing the noise, kicked Treavor idly. His brother had no place to disturb the lovely afternoon smoke he and Morgan were having together.

There was a click above him, the lighter no doubt, as it was followed by a twin's deep inhalation. Some secret conference passed between the twins in whispers, and Treavor was only able to catch Custis saying, “It would be amusing to see how he reacts, wouldn't it?”, followed by a thoughtful 'Hm.'

The lighter clicked open and closed in Morgan's rough fingers. Suddenly, his heels disappeared from Treavor's back as the man leaned forward and flipped the lighter open again. Treavor turned his head down, seeking out the source of the noise, and mindless of the blindfold over his eyes. He received a firm slap on the cheek for his efforts.

The same rough hands forced Treavor's mouth open, and he gagged at the feeling of balled-up fabric being forced between his teeth.

“It would serve you well, brother, not to move.” Morgan growled, and it was only then that Treavor began to feel an uncomfortable heat rising up towards his nipple.

-

The dinner bell rang, and people moved with grace to their seats at the long rows of dinner tables. For once, Treavor had a seat at the head of the table, and the focus of many in the room was on him. His father had been brought downstairs from his sickroom to make a speech, about how proud he was of his son's non-existant accomplishments and how much he hoped for his non-existant future. It would take something more than hope from Lord Pendleton for Treavor to feel content today. 

It would take his father actually being a father. Of course, the man was far too drunk and far too sick for anything resembling that. Treavor wondered, privately, why anyone would drink to the degree his father did, to the degree that he needed a shot or two inside him just to dull the pain of whatever demon was gnawing away at his insides and slowly killing him.

He picked at his food, and looked at the faces who were staring back at him. Some were talking to each other across the table, occasionally taking glances at him or his brothers or his father. The Boyle matriarch's attention was fixed so strongly, if only for a moment, on Treavor, that he worried that despite the layers of his suit, his burn had begun to weep through the bandage and was causing a stain. He brushed off the fear, and smiled at Waverly's mother.

“More tomatoes, Lady Boyle?” he offered, a perfect gentleman, but he was interrupted by his father, who took this moment to stand and tap his glass to call the crowd's attention and begin his toast.

-

Treavor's screams never left the parlor, his noises swallowed by the rag stuffed haphazardly into his mouth. Once the smell of burning flesh, his own flesh, reached Treavor's nostrils and made him retch, the light pressure of Custis's heels left his back as well.

Custis leaned down to his kneeling twin, and guided away Morgan's attention with a gentle hand on his cheek, drawing him back up towards the divan. “Morgan, I think that might be enough.”

Morgan's all-too-obliging hand slipped away from beneath Treavor's chest, and the white-hot pain there quickly faded away to a constant, dull throbbing, the brightest part of a tapestry of aches and pains across his body.

-

Treavor called Wallace aside, so that they could quickly change the dressing on some of his injuries and he could return to the ballroom. This dance was the one part of his party that he was actually looking forward to, because this was to be the first time that he'd ask Waverly to dance.

Their friendship was a natural one: she desired knowledge of everyone and everything; and Treavor had no shortage of tales he felt unable to tell anyone as a man whose presence was rarely felt and even more rarely acknowledged. He confided everything to her, from his father's illness to the coldness of Shaw and all the other boys. In return, she told him everything of the warmth of the world she inhabited, one where everyone looked up to her family and worked to attain her favor.

“After what you've told me, though, Treavor, I'm sure I shall never marry. Who knows to what lengths a husband might lie to to keep my favor, never mind how much lying it would take to achieve it in the first place.” she had told him once. Perhaps it was a concerning thing to say, but to Treavor, her worries sounded completely reasonable. After all, she was the only person alive apart from Wallace that he really trusted.

And that was why he asked her to step out onto the dance floor, for the first dance of the evening, his mind full of heady plans and schemes and knowing that her mind was always full of them as well. She looked uncomfortable and stiff as she took his hand and they stepped into the center of the ballroom to begin to waltz.

-

Morgan lit his own cigarette, the sound of the lighter making Treavor flinch. Custis kicked him again for moving, but the two twins then sat in peace for some time, the heavy perfumed odor of their cigarettes slowly filling the room and mixing with the acrid smell of burning to make Treavor's head swim. Occasionally, Custis's shoes would twist just so on Treavor's back, the action of him turning preceding, again, a barely audible whisper from one twin to the other, eliciting from the other a deep, rumbling chuckle, and in one case, the sound of skin meeting skin, the smallest of kisses being placed on a cheek.

Eventually, after a long silence, Custis addressed the prostrate brother beneath him. “Don't think we've forgotten about you, little brother.” And he stood, the sound of his wooden heels as he stepped away muffled by the lush carpet.

“We truly wanted to do something nice for you, since today is your birthday. But, this is what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you. To think,” There came the sound of a belt unbuckling, and Treavor could feel himself blanch as he flinched pathetically, much to Morgan's amusement. “That a man might raise his hand against his own brothers; and that, after twenty years, he's never even learned how to punch properly!” The loop of the belt was slung around Treavor's neck, and the noise of shock is choked out of him and swallowed, again, by the rag in his mouth. “Pathetic. You're lucky we don't just kill you and have done with it.”

Custis took the rag from Treavor's mouth, throwing it to the carpet and drawing the belt taut against Treavor's neck in one fluid, synchronized movement.

“Morgan, hand me a glass of whiskey, if you please. A few fingers, there's a good man, it is Treavor's birthday, after all.” He accepted the glass and held it to Treavor's mouth. “This is a good vintage, now, Treavor, so don't waste a single drop.”

He poured half the glass down Treavor's throat, and when Treavor hacked and sputtered, he tightened the belt with a jerk, cutting off the younger Pendleton's air supply.

“Don't waste it, I said!” He hissed, a sadistic joy creeping into his voice as he relaxed the belt and forced more whiskey down his brother's throat.

-

Treavor invited Waverly out onto the balcony, once the attention had drifted from them into the normal pockets of social cliques. She seemed reluctant to join him, but acquiesced nonetheless. As they stepped out into the night air, both she and he regained their private strengths: Waverly relaxed against the balcony and Treavor found the tongue it felt like he had swallowed.

“Waverly... I've been thinking. What if – what if we leave Dunwall?”

“What on earth, Treavor?!” Waverly snapped to attention in an instant, standing upright and crossing her arms across his chest.

Treavor's asking was, when he asked again, perhaps, somewhat desperate. “I'm saying that we should run away to the countryside. I mean, we're already the best of friends, and – if we did, I'd be able to start a new life, away from Custis and Morgan-”

Waverly was so shocked her mouth fell agape. “I'm... the best friend you have? You... poor sod! We gossip, but I wouldn't even consider... eloping! With you!” She scoffed, the idea absurd to her.

“Well we wouldn't be eloping. We wouldn't be married!”

“As if that's any better, Treavor! Be a man! I've told you time and time again that you're a player in this game just like the rest of us. The only way you'll ever get anywhere in life is if you just keep on, instead of turning and running like a coward.”

She turned to leave, her hackles risen. Treavor protested, “Waverly, I thought-”

“You thought wrong!” Each clack of her heels against the floor as she walked back into the party was a blow to the only hope Treavor still held in his heart.  
-

“Hm. Well, we really should let you go.” Custis, now that the glass was empty and Treavor's wheezing and sputtering had calmed, looked down at his pocket watch. “You might need a few hours to ready yourself for the party. Father would be... disappointed to learn you refused to come downstairs for your own party. He does sometimes worry that you're an ungrateful child.”

He took out a knife and cut the ropes around Treavor's arms and legs. Treavor collapsed, unable to bear his own weight or the bruises or the burning in his throat and on his skin any longer.

Morgan stood. “I suppose we're going to have to call Wallace to pick you up and take you to your room, since you probably can't even move. Whelp.”

Treavor waited until his brothers left the room to begin sobbing in earnest, though his cheeks were already wet. When Wallace entered the room, he had curled up into a ball, the whiskey and tears drying on his face.

“Master Treavor.” Wallace said gently, unable to disguise the horror on his face. Treavor paid him no mind, the pains all over his body taking precedence. “I''ve run you a bath. The salts should help to soothe your pain. Can you walk?”

Treavor shook his head, and Wallace bent down, his arms threading as best they could around his master without brushing against his bruises. “I'm sorry, sir, I should have been able to help.”

“But you didn't! You're a coward!” Treavor spat, tears that were welling up anew draining down into his throat like venom. “And no amount of apologizing is going to change that, Wallace!”

-

Treavor Pendleton smoked alone on the balcony for much of the rest of the evening. He had Wallace bring out the vintage that had been uncorked specifically for him; it was the only thing that was his about the night. That and the smoke curling up into the sky.

Wallace cleared his throat in an attempt to speak, to advise or to make another apology, but Treavor silenced him with an errant wave of his hand and lit another cigarette.

“Master Treavor,” Wallace's voice was insistent, “None of this is your fault.”

Treavor knew, but hearing Wallace's reassurance was the only gift he remembered from that birthday and the only one he truly appreciated.


End file.
